


Drunk Thursdays

by endversed



Series: Pining [2]
Category: IT (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-24
Updated: 2017-11-24
Packaged: 2019-02-06 07:24:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12812556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endversed/pseuds/endversed
Summary: Richie Tozier has been climbing through Eddie Kaspbrak’s bedroom window since they were thirteen years old.Now, they're eighteen, and when Richie stumbles through drunk as all get out one evening, some feelings are brought to light.





	Drunk Thursdays

**Author's Note:**

> Prequel to **Failing To Plan (Planning To Fail)** , wherein the Losers' plan to get Richie and Eddie together go a little haywire (mostly just because they're two months too late). Can be read as a stand alone; who doesn't love to see our favourite dorks finally getting together?

Richie Tozier has been climbing through Eddie Kaspbrak’s bedroom window since they were thirteen years old.

It started because Richie wanted to test his limits, wanted to prove to Eddie – and all the other Losers who stood watching in Eddie’s yard the first time he did it – that he _could_ climb that tree outside of Eddie’s window without falling and breaking his neck. Sure enough, after one or two (read truthfully: twelve) stumbles, he made it to Eddie’s window triumphantly, knocking on the glass to notify Eddie of his success and to request entrance. Eddie had simply flipped him the bird and closed the curtains instead.

Because Richie has seemingly never heard of the saying ‘just because you can do something, doesn’t mean you should’, he took his initial success as invitation to try again and again and _again_. It was only on his fifth go that Eddie finally actually opened the window for him and allowed him to tumble into the room. Richie hadn’t expected it one bit when it happened, so instead of rolling through gracefully like he’d been imagining, he fell flat on his face and snapped his glasses clean in half.

They both worked on their act a little bit after that, as with the sheer number of times Richie has climbed through Eddie’s window in the five years since that very first time, there isn’t enough duct tape in the world to repair Richie’s glasses if he keeps falling like that with each attempt.

Sometimes Richie pops by just to say hello. Sometimes he pops by to help Eddie with homework, or vice versa. Sometimes he pops by because he just needs to get away from his shitty house, away from his shitty parents, and whilst Mrs K may never welcome him with open arms – hence the window instead of door route – Eddie hasn’t turned him away once yet.

So, with Eddie being eighteen now, and Richie’s bi-nightly window visits being at this point nearly in the thousands, he no longer jumps when he hears tapping on his bedroom window at midnight.

He’d already been awake, working on some Chemistry homework at his desk in the corner of his room. He’s facing away from the window when it’s knocked, but he doesn’t need to turn around to figure out who it is – there’s only one moron in Derry who’s willing to scale a very, _very_ tall tree just to visit little old Eddie Kaspbrak.

“It’s open, dipshit,” Eddie calls out, just like he does every time.

He’s not even sure why Richie still _knocks_ at this point; Eddie hasn’t locked his window in over four years, just in case Richie ever feels like dropping by and Eddie is otherwise occupied at his time of arrival. Eddie thinks that it’s Richie’s minimal way of respecting boundaries and privacy, which is kind of a stupid endeavour when you’re literally climbing into a guy’s bedroom through his window.

Eddie still doesn’t turn around as he hears the window being pulled up, still doesn’t turn around when he hears a toppling of uncoordinated, too-gangly limbs climbing through. Richie hit a growth spurt when they were sixteen and still hasn’t quite stopped, and his brain just hasn’t got to grips yet with the fact that his legs are longer than they used to be, his arms and torso too. It means that he’s even clumsier now than he was before, and this is the kid who broke his ankle when they were eight because he fell off a goddamn sidewalk whilst walking in a straight line.

“Hey-o, Spaghetti Head,” Richie stage-whispers, despite the fact Mrs K isn’t even in and he knows it. “What ya doin’?”

The lilt to his voice, the quiet giggle that follows his words – that’s what makes Eddie finally turn around.

“Are you drunk?” Eddie asks, peering suspiciously at the boy sprawled out on his bedroom floor, limbs star-fished, pointing to each corner of the room. “Why the fuck are you drunk? It’s a fucking Thursday.”

“Felt like it,” Richie replies easily, shrugging one shoulder, the scratch of his hoodie against the carpet making a noise in the movement. “Why aren’t _you_ drunk?”

“Because it’s a fucking Thursday.” Richie giggles at that, eyes fluttered closed and arm thrown across his forehead. Eddie sighs heavily as he stands up from his desk, moving to sit cross-legged beside Richie’s reclining body. “Who the fuck did you get drunk with?”

“The gorgeous Beverly Marsh,” Richie says, his eyes flying open straight afterwards. “Not as gorgeous as you, though, Eds, don’t worry.”

Eddie bristles. He hates it when Richie says shit like that – all hyperbolic and flirty. Eddie knows that Richie’s like it with everyone, but he can’t help but feel that the comparison’s not very fair, seeing as how not _everyone_ has been in love with Trashmouth Tozier since they were fifteen like Eddie has.

“Fuck off, Trashmouth,” Eddie mutters, scowling down at Richie. Richie doesn’t seem to notice Eddie’s agitation one bit, smiling lazily as he is, one hand reaching out to cup Eddie’s jaw lightly. “Why did you two decide to get drunk together on a Thursday?”

“Quit saying Thursday so much, Eds. The word’s gonna lose its meaning if you carry on.” Eddie stares down at him, entirely unimpressed, eyebrow arched to indicate he’s still expecting an answer. “She couldn’t score any weed this week. We improvised with my parents’ liquor cabinet. Ain’t like they’re ever sober enough to notice there’s anything missing, right?”

Richie’s hand on Eddie’s jaw is almost feather-light, the tip of his forefinger brushing the underside of Eddie’s chin. He’s blinking owlishly up at Eddie from behind his glasses, sated smile still on his face. Eddie’s frown softens instinctively as he looks down at his best friend.

“You could just _not_ get intoxicated on a Thursday night. That was always an option.”

Richie scoffs. “Yeah, an option for _nerds_ , maybe.”

“Richie, you’re the biggest fucking nerd I know.”

Richie giggles again, totally unperturbed by Eddie’s insult. He moves his hand away from Eddie’s jaw and wraps it around the back of Eddie’s neck, tugging downwards slightly.

“C’mere, Eds. Lay down with me. Wanna cuddle.”

“The floor doesn’t look too comfy, Rich.”

“Well, you won’t be lying on the floor, will ya? You’ll be lying on me. So s’fine. C’mere.”

Eddie bites back a smile, knowing it’ll look too fond for its own good if he lets it spread across his mouth.

“I’ll only cuddle with you if we can lie on the bed,” Eddie compromises. “Deal?”

Richie thinks it over for a few seconds, nose scrunching up as he considers the offer put before him. Eventually he seems to reach a decision, nodding amiably a few times and then sitting up far too quickly. He wobbles slightly when he does, arms flailing out to catch himself, almost hitting Eddie in the face in the process. The only reason Eddie manages to dodge Richie’s large fist against his nose is because he’s well versed in handling Richie’s gangly limbs at this point in life.

“Why is the room spinning?”

“Because you got drunk on a Thursday. Now, c’mon, up we go, it’s time to get into bed.”

Richie allows himself to be manoeuvred into a standing position, arm around Eddie’s shoulders to keep himself balanced whilst Eddie’s arm snakes around his waist. It must look quite the sight – tiny Eddie Kaspbrak supporting lanky Richie Tozier’s full weight. Eddie wishes he had a camera nearby, so he could take a picture to shove in people’s faces next time someone insinuates he’s weak simply because he’s short.

“I thought I told you to stop saying Thursday so much, Eds.”

“Yeah, well I thought I told you to stop calling me Eds back when we were in elementary school. We don’t always get what we want, do we, Rich?”

Eddie takes the one step forward needed to reach his single bed, unwinding his arm from Richie’s waist to allow him to topple onto it, face first. Eddie laughs softly at the sight, bending down to untie Richie’s shoelaces and remove his sneakers.

“You’re good to me, Eds,” Richie declares, voice slightly muffled by Eddie’s duvet. “What would I do without ya?”

“Probably find some other gullible idiot’s window to climb through.”

Richie shakes his head so vigorously his whole body moves with it, the wiggling of it actually assisting Eddie in taking off Richie’s second shoe.

“Nuh uh, Spaghetti Man. No-one else like you in the world. I could never replace you. Or your window.”

“Oh, so your love for me is on par with your love for an inanimate fucking object?” Eddie teases, throwing Richie’s shoes to the side and standing back up again, arms folded over his chest. “I’m hurt, Rich.”

Eddie is grinning as he says it, watching as Richie’s body starts convulsing ever so slightly. He assumes it’s Richie laughing, possibly a little too hard considering Eddie’s jest wasn’t really _that_ fucking funny. He only realises it’s not laughter when he hears small, choked sobs escaping Richie’s mouth, muted marginally by the comforter in and around his mouth.

“I don’t love the window more than you,” Richie asserts, voice a little drunk-crazed as he struggles for breath between tears. Eddie stands in shock, frozen still as he stares wide-eyed down at Richie’s shaking back. “I love you more than anything else in the _world_. I love you so much it _hurts_ , Eds, baby.”

“You… what?”

“I love you, Eds! I’ve loved you since I was fif-fucking-teen. Probably before then, even, I just didn’t realise what that feeling was back then.”

Eddie grits his teeth, fists clenched at his sides. “This isn’t funny, Trashmouth. Quit fucking around or I’ll throw you out.”

“I’m not fucking around!” Richie announces, rolling himself over quickly so that he can sit on the edge of the bed, looking up at Eddie with imploring, red-rimmed eyes, but at least the tears seemed to have stopped now. “I love you. I am _in love_ with you. Stan knows. You can ask Stan if you don’t believe me. Here – call Stan.”

He reaches into his pocket and retrieves his phone, proffering it out to Eddie with shaking hands.

“I’m not going to call Stan,” Eddie says, pushing Richie’s hand away from him. “You’re just – you’re drunk. You don’t know what you’re saying. You don’t _mean_ what you’re saying.”

Richie growls; a low, irritated sound as he stands up on teetering feet, swaying slightly. He tips a little too far to the left at one point, and Eddie’s hands fly out on instinct to steady him. Eddie tries to pull his hands away as soon as Richie’s straightened back up, but Richie catches them on their way back to Eddie’s sides, lacing both of their fingers together and holding them between their chests.

“I know what I’m saying, Eds, and I mean it, too. I love you. Yes I’m fucking drunk, but I feel like this all the fucking time when I’m sober anyway. Sober Richie’s just too much of a fucking pussy to ever admit this shit to you.” Richie pauses, face paling. “Probably because he’s smart enough to know it’s more than likely going to change our friendship forever, actually. Ha. You so hate me now, don’t you? I can – I can go, I think I’m gonna go, yeah I’m definitely gonna –“

“You aren’t going anywhere, Trashmouth.” Eddie tightens his grip on Richie’s hand when the bastard tries to pull away, holding Richie’s gaze intently. “I don’t hate you. I could never fucking hate you. You could kill a fucking puppy and I’d still probably love you, somewhere deep down.”

Richie’s breath hitches, his mouth dropping open, just slightly.

“Love me?”

“Yes. Love you.”

Richie grins, wide and almost blindingly bright, clumsily leaning down to try and press a kiss to Eddie’s lips. Eddie takes back one of his hands so that he can half-cover Richie’s looming mouth with it, keeping their lips apart – for the time being.

“Love me… like as friends?” Richie asks, confused.

“No. Not like as friends. But I am _not_ having our first kiss be when you’re drunk and there’s a chance you won’t remember it.”

“I need bread,” Richie requests desperately, moving Eddie’s hand from his mouth and picking up the water bottle from Eddie’s bedside table, starting to sip from it like he hasn’t had a drink in years. “Lots and lots of fucking bread. I’ll be sober in no fucking time, Spaghetti Head, and then we can make out, yeah?”

Eddie laughs softly, shaking his head and pressing his forehead against Richie’s chest.

“No bread,” he denies, thumb stroking over the ridges of Richie’s knuckles. “You’re just gonna have to sleep it off.”

“Good fucking night then. See you on the flip side, future make out partner.”

Richie rips his hoodie off and throws it on the floor, leaving him wearing only a pair of grey sweatpants and an off-white tank top that was probably fully white at some point in its life. He folds himself quickly into Eddie’s bed, shucking his glasses onto the bedside table and scooting right over to the side that’s pressed against the wall, careful to leave the blanket folded down on the other side; an invitation if Eddie’s ever seen one.

Eddie rolls his eyes but climbs in, being pulled instantly into their usual spooning position by Richie as soon as his limbs hit the mattress. It’s kind of ridiculous, Eddie can see now, that they’ve been the way that they are with each other – been like fucking _this_ with each other; casual spooning during mid-week impromptu sleepovers – for so many years, and yet neither one of them could believe the other had feelings to match.

“You’re fucking cold, Tozier,” Eddie grumbles when Richie presses his cold feet to Eddie’s calves. “And you fucking reek of alcohol.”

“Get over it, Eds,” Richie mumbles, sounding sleepy already. “I know you love me anyway.”

Eddie falls asleep with a smile on his face.

 

\-----

 

Eddie wakes up with a grimace on his face.

The awful sound of retching – both dry and wet – is happening a mere few feet away from him, directly into his metal trashcan. The noise of it all is horribly violent, and if Eddie wasn’t such a good person, he’d cover his ears with his pillow and fall the fuck back to sleep. As he _is_ such a good person, he only tries it for a few minutes, before promptly giving up when he realises it isn’t going to work – Richie’s vomiting is just too damn fucking loud.

He rolls over with a groan, peeking one eye open to spy the scene before him. Richie is hunched over Eddie’s trashcan, body rolling every few moments as he heaves. The sound of wet splattering against metal isn’t as prevalent as it was a few minutes ago, so Richie’s stomach must be pretty empty by now, the majority of its previous contents sloshing around in the garbage. His digital clock tells him it’s still thirty minutes before he’s due up for school, and his memory tells him his mom is still visiting Aunts in Bangor today, so he takes pity on the vomiting boy and clambers out of bed.

Without saying a word, he leaves his bedroom and takes the stairs down to the kitchen, preparing a hangover breakfast of water and dry toast. It’s only a few minutes that he’s downstairs, but it gives him time to reflect on last night’s events and plan how he’s going to handle it all this morning.

With breakfast made and in hand, Eddie travels back upstairs, making a pit-stop in the bathroom to pocket something before walking back into his bedroom to find Richie sprawled out on the floor on his back, so similar to how he started last night in Eddie’s room. His arm is covering his eyes and there’s a miserable, petulant pout on his face when Eddie takes a seat beside him on the floor.

“Here,” Eddie announces, placing the breakfast items next to Richie’s fisted hand. “Don’t say I never fucking do anything for you.”

Richie moves his hand from his eyes minutely, peeking at what Eddie is offering him. He leans up on his elbows, wincing at the movement, and gingerly picks up the glass of water to take a few sips.

“Why the fuck did I get so fucking drunk yesterday, Eds?”

“Because you’re a fucking moron. That can’t be news to you at this point, Rich.”

Richie snorts, regretting it immediately after as he winces and clutches a hand against his forehead, like he might be able to grab at the headache pounding away at his brain and pull it out entirely. Eddie allows Richie a moment’s respite whilst he cautiously nibbles at his toast, eyes focusing pretty much anywhere but on Eddie.

“So crazy,” Richie says after his final bite, still looking only at the wall in front of him. “I can barely remember a thing from last night. Isn’t that so crazy?”

Eddie frowns at him. Richie clearly catches it out of his peripheral vision, because he turns his head further away, so he can’t even see Eddie out of the corner of his eye anymore.

“You can’t remember anything?” Eddie asks, disbelief lacing his tone. “Not a single thing?”

“Nope.” Richie’s voice sounds pinched; oddly squeaky. “Total mind-blank, man.”

“Okay,” Eddie doubts, slowly drawing on the word as his frown deepens. He knows he’s got two options here: let Richie lie and pretend like last night never happened, or be as brave as he should have been three fucking years ago and just go for this shit. Making his decision, he continues, “You were right last night. Sober Richie is a fucking pussy.”

“Rude,” Richie mumbles, but he does turn his head to finally look at Eddie. “Maybe… maybe Sober Richie’s worried that you were just being nice to me last night to make me go the fuck to sleep.”

“Trashmouth, when the fuck have I _ever_ been nice to you?”

“That is a very good point, actually.”

Richie’s smile spreads as he speaks, widening into an exuberant grin by the last word. Eddie matches it easily, naturally, and they’re both staring at each other like two goofy assholes _finally_ doing something a long time fucking coming. Richie has turned to face Eddie now; long legs extended either side of Eddie’s body, hands fidgeting on his thighs.

“I meant everything I said last night,” Eddie says, almost a whisper in the relative quiet of the room. “I do. I do love you. And you’re a fucking moron for waiting three years to tell me how you feel, and you’re a fucking moron for trying to pretend you didn’t remember last night. But… but I still want to fucking kiss you, for some fucking reason I’ve not been able to fathom over the three years I’ve been wanting it.”

“I fucking love you, too, Eds.”

“So much it _hurts_ , apparently.”

Richie laughs; a short, happy breath of a thing. He chews at his bottom lip for a few seconds, hesitantly moving his hands from his own thighs to rest instead on Eddie’s knees, shuffling forwards slightly to get closer. Eddie is reminded of the action a dog makes when it’s dragging its ass across a floor, and has to bite his tongue to stifle a laugh before it bubbles out.

Richie begins to lean in slightly, eyes falling closed. Eddie is about to do the same, but then Richie exhales slightly, breathing directly into Eddie’s face, and Eddie suddenly remembers _why_ he made the pit-stop to the bathroom earlier.

“The fuck?” Richie mutters when Eddie pulls away abruptly, eyes opening again and brows furrowing. “You’re sending me some pretty fuckin’ mixed signals here, Eds.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, delving his hand into his shorts’ pocket and pulling out the spare toothbrush he keeps hidden in the cabinets for when Richie stays over and oversleeps before school. He grabs one of Richie’s hands from his knee and allows the object to exchange palms. Richie looks down at it, blinking into recognition after a second.

“Go brush your disgusting, vomit-y teeth right this fucking second so I can kiss the crap out of your trash mouth, Tozier.”

Richie stands up faster than the speed of light, bolting across the hall and into the bathroom, hangover be damned it would seem. Eddie sits patiently, hearing first the faucet running, then the sound of a toothbrush contacting vigorously with a pair of teeth for a few minutes, and finally the sound of mouthwash been swilled and spat out into the basin.

“Done!” Richie yells, running back into the bedroom and resuming his position on the floor opposite Eddie. He bares his teeth for Eddie’s inspection. “Please, _please_ , will you fucking kiss me now?”

Eddie pretends to think it over for a few seconds, tilting his head this way and that. Richie makes a frustrated noise, hands thrown up in the air. Eddie laughs, taking pity as he moves to take a seat in Richie’s lap instead of the floor, hands tangling into Richie’s messy curls as he does. Richie’s hands fly to Eddie’s waist, clutching on for dear life as he looks up at Eddie in open, unabashed awe.

Eddie gives his answer by leaning down to press their mouths together.

Richie’s fingers twitch against Eddie’s sides, clutching too-tight and then too-loose in intervals. Eddie finds that Richie tastes almost overwhelmingly like toothpaste, unsurprisingly, but there’s also something underneath, something very purely _Richie_ that it makes sense no amount of mint could get rid of it. It’s a taste of candy and cigarettes; sweet like sugar and bitter like coffee. Eddie licks across the seam of Richie’s lip to taste more of it, and Richie opens up, more than happy to oblige.

They part after a moment, smiling bashfully and catching their breaths, still holding on to each other tightly.

“I would say that was worth the wait,” Eddie murmurs, still panting softly. “But three years is a fucking long time.”

“We should totally skip school today,” Richie suggests, grinning. “We gotta hell of a lotta making up to do, baby.”

Eddie giggles. “I’m in.”

He ignores Richie’s expression of shock and leans down to kiss him again.

They _do_ have a lot of making up to do; Eddie’s not been missing out on _school_ for the past three years. Besides; Richie’s smiling, gentle mouth is a lot more appealing than facing the teacher whose Chemistry homework Eddie totally didn’t get around to finishing last night.

The rest of the world can fucking wait.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, please send me Reddie prompts over on Tumblr - keeerys.tumblr.com !!


End file.
